"Mind you don't get deaf in your old age, Nebbie!" he said. "Phew! A little more shouting like that and I should be unable to preach to- morrow!"
Still patting the dog's head, his eyes gradually darkened and his brow became clouded.
"Poor Spruce!" he murmured. "'Help him, if so be the lady is a hard one!' Already in fear of her! I expect they have heard something— some ill-report—probably only too correctly founded. Yet, how it goes against the grain of manhood to realise that any 'lady' may be 'a hard one!' But, alas!—what a multitude of 'hard ones' there are! Harder than men, perhaps, if all the truth were known!"
And there was a certain sternness and rooted aversion in him to that dim approaching presence of the unknown heiress of Abbot's Manor. He experienced an instinctive dislike of her, and was positively certain that the vague repugnance would deepen into actual antipathy.
"One cannot possibly like everybody," he argued within himself, in extenuation of what he felt was an unreasonable mental attitude; "'And modern fashionable women are among the most unlikeable of all human creatures. Any one of them in such a village as this would be absurdly out of place."
Thus self-persuaded, his mood was a singular mixture of pity and resentment when, in fulfilment of his promise, he walked that afternoon up the winding road which led to the Manor, and avoiding the lodge gates, passed through a rustic turnstile he knew well and so along a path across meadows and through shrubberies to the house. The path was guarded by a sentinel board marked 'Private. Trespassers will be prosecuted.' But in all the years he had lived at St. Rest, he cared nothing for that. As rector of the parish he had his little privileges. Nebbie trotted at his heels with the air of a dog accustomed to very familiar surroundings. The grass on either side was springing up long and green,—delicate little field flowers were peeping through it here and there, and every now and then there floated upwards the strong sweet incense of the young wild thyme. The way he had chosen to walk was known as a 'short cut' to Abbot's Manor, and ten minutes of easy striding brought him into the dewy coolness of a thicket of dark firs, at the end of which, round a sharp turn, the fine old red brick and timbered gables of the house came into full view. He paused a moment, looking somewhat regretfully at the picture, warmly lit up by the glow of the bright sun,—a picture which through long habitude of observation had grown very sweet to him. It was not every day that such a house as Abbot's Manor came within reach of the archaeologist and antiquarian. The beautiful tiled-roof—the picturesque roughness and crookedness of the architectural lines of the whole building, so different to the smooth, hard, angular imitations of half-timbered work common in these degenerate days, were a delight to the eyes to rest upon,—a wealth of ivy clung thickly to the walls and clambered round the quaint old chimneys;—some white doves clustered in a group on the summit of one broad oak gable, were spreading their snowy wings to the warm sun and discussing their domestic concerns in melodious cooings;—the latticed windows, some of which in their unspoilt antiquity of 'horn' panes were a particular feature of the house, were all thrown open,—but to Walden's sensitive observation there seemed a different atmosphere about the place,—a suggestion of change and occupation which was almost startling.
He paced slowly on, and arrived at the outside gate, which led into a square old-fashioned court, such as was common to Tudor times, paved on three sides and planted with formal beds of flowers, the whole surrounded by an ancient wall. The gate was ajar, and pushing it open he passed in, glancing for a moment at the grey weather- beaten sun-dial in the middle of the court which told him it was three-o'clock. For four centuries, at least, that self-same dial had marked the hour in that self-same spot, a silent commentary on the briefness of human existence, as compared with its own strange non- sentient lastingness. The sound of Walden's footsteps on the old paving-stones awoke faint echoes, and startled away a robin from a spray of blossoming briar-rose, and as he walked up to the great oaken porch of entrance,—a porch heavily carved with the Vaignecourt or Vancourt emblems, and as deep and wide in its interior as a small room, an odd sense came over him that he was no longer an accustomed visitor to a beautiful 'show house,' so much as a kind of trespasser on forbidden ground. The thick nail-studded doors, clamped with huge bolts and bars, stood wide open; no servant was on the threshold to bid him enter, and for a moment he hesitated, uncertain whether to ring the bell, or to turn back and go away, when suddenly Mrs. Spruce emerged from a shadowy corner leading to the basement, and hailed his appearance with an exclamation of evident relief.
"Thank the Lord and His goodness, Passon Walden, here you are at last! I'd made up my mind the silly fool of a Spruce had brought me the wrong message;—a good meanin' man, but weak in the upper storey, 'cept where trees is concerned and clearing away brushwood, when I'd be bold to say he's as handy as they make 'em—but do, for mercy's sake, Passon, step inside and see how we've got on, for it's not so bad as it might have been, an' I've seen worse done at a few days' notice than even myself with hired hands on a suddint could ever do. Step in, sir, step in!—we're leavin' the door open to let the sun in a bit to warm the hall, for the old stained glass do but filter it through at its best; not but that we ain't had a fire in it night and mornin' ever since we had Miss Vancourt's letter."
Walden made no attempt to stem the flow of the worthy woman's discourse. From old experience, he knew that to be an impossible task. So he stepped in as he was bidden, and looked round the grand old hall, decorated with ancient armour, frayed banners and worn scutcheons, feeling regretfully that perhaps he was looking at it so for the last time. No one more than he had appreciated the simple dignity of its old-world style, or had more correctly estimated the priceless value of the antique oak panelling that covered its walls. He loved the great ingle-nook, set deep back as it were, in the very bosom of the house, with its high and elaborately carved benches on each side, and its massive armorial emblems wrought in black oak, picked out with tarnished gold, crimson and azure,—he appreciated every small gleam and narrow shaft of colour reflected by the strong sun through the deeply-tinted lozenge panes of glass that filled the lofty oriel windows on either side;—and the stuffed knight-in- armour, a model figure 'clad in complete steel,' of the fourteenth century, which stood, holding a spear in its gauntleted hand near the doorway leading to the various reception rooms, was almost a personal friend. Mrs. Spruce, happily unconscious of the deepening melancholy which had begun to tinge his thoughts, led the way through the hall, still garrulously chirping.
"We've cleaned up wonderfully, considerin'—and it was just the Lord's providence that at Riversford I found a decent butler and footman what had jes' got the sack from Sir Morton Pippitt's and were lookin' for a place temp'ry, preferring London later, so I persuaded both of 'em to come and try service with a lady for once, instead of with a fussy old ancient, who turns red and blue in the face if he's kept waitin' 'arf a second—and I picked up with a gel what the footman was engaged to, and that'll keep HIM a fixture,— and I found the butler had a hi on a young woman at the public-house 'ere,—so that's what you may call an 'hattraction,' and then I got two more 'andy gels which was jes' goin' off to see about Mrs. Leveson's place, and when I told 'em that there the sugar was weighed out, and the tea dispensed by the ounce, as if it was chemicals, and that please the Lord and anybody else that likes, they'd have better feedin' if they came along with me, they struck a bargain there and then. And then as if there was a special powerful blessin' on it all, who should come down Riversford High Street but one of the best cooks as ever took a job, a Scotch body worth her weight in gold, and she'd be a pretty big parcel to weigh, too, but she can send up a dinner for one as easy as for thirty, which is as good a test as boilin' a tater—-and 'as got all her wits about her. She was just goin' to advertise for a house party or shootin' job, so we went into the Crown Inn at Riversford and had tea together and settled it. And they all come up in a wagginette together as merry as larks;—so the place is quite lively, Passon, I do assure you, 'specially for a woman like me which have had it all to myself and lonesome like for many years. I've made Kitty useful, too, dustin' and polishin'—gels can't begin their trainin' too early, and all has been going on fine;—not but what there's a mighty sight of eatin' and drinkin' now, but it's the Lord's will that human bein's should feed even as the pigs do, 'specially domestic servants, and there's no helpin' of it nor hinderin'—but this mornin's business did put me out a bit, and I do assure you I haven't got over it yet, but howsomever, Spruce says 'Do yer dooty!'—and I'm a-doin' it to the best of my belief and, 'ope—still it do make my mind a bit ricketty—"